Page 89 of Second Sin

No luck.

“That’s not coming out,” comes his voice behind me.

He’s leaning against the doorway, towel slung low around his waist, hair damp and a little messy like he barely bothered with it. His chest is still flushed from the shower, drops of water sliding down his stomach.

God, he’s sexy.

It hits low and hard—immediate. No build-up. Just want curling through me like it’s got nowhere else to go.

I clear my throat, eyes dropping to the stain. “Well. At least the shirt had a good night.”

He chuckles and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “You could always leave some stuff here. Just makes sense.”

I glance at him, smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Practical,” I say lightly, like my heart didn’t just trip over itself.

He nods once, like that settles it, then pushes off the doorframe and disappears back into the bathroom.

In the foyer by the elevator, I slip on my shoes, run a hand through my hair in the mirror, and catch my reflection looking softer than I remember.

Duffle over one shoulder, keys in hand, he rounds the corner. Tailored slacks, crisp button-down, blazer sharp across broad shoulders. His collar’s damp. Hair not quite dry.

God, he looks good.

And lighter, somehow. Like whatever weight he usually carries on his shoulders got left behind with the steam in the bathroom mirror. There’s still something sharp in him—but it’s quieter now. Unarmed.

He presses the elevator button and doesn’t say anything, just steps close enough that our arms brush.

The doors slide open. We step inside.

He leans in and presses a quick kiss to my temple, hand settling at the small of my back like it’s instinct. I turn toward him, and his mouth finds mine again—slow and soft.

The elevator hums as we descend to the parking level.

The doors part, we step out, and his expression shifts in an instance. Jaw locking. Shoulders going tight.

I follow his gaze.

Oh my God.

His matte black Audi R8 is completely trashed.

Red spray paint scrawled across the hood:ASSHOLE.More stretched along the side in angry, uneven strokes:SNAKE. DIE.

Tires slashed. Windshield cracked, a spiderweb of shattered glass catching the light.

“Your car,” I whisper.

His jaw ticks. Eyes like ice. The silence is loud.

“Fuck,” he says finally.

I glance around. “There have to be cameras, right? No one gets down here without clearance.”

His phone is already in his hand. Thumbs moving fast. Somewhere else now.

Without a word, he turns and walks back into the elevator. I follow.

The doors slide shut. The soft hum of the elevator rising is the only sound between us.

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